Pools of Sorrow, Waves of Joy
by The Samurai Chef
Summary: A collection of 26 unconnected GOEMON drabbles, one for each letter of the alphabet. Abandoned.
1. Ancient Feelings

**Author's Note: **26 Goedrabbles, one for each letter of the alphabet. I honestly hope I will find the motivation to finish this, because me and 'finishing' don't tend to go along. / Anyway, with any luck, this will be a collection of both amusing and serious, light and heavy subject matter relating to the samurai. (Watch this end up being a one-shot ;) Not to say that Jigen and Lupin won't pop in from time to time. More RP, and RP-inspired fun! 8D

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Ishikawa Goemon, but the words with which I have described his situations are mine. Ishikawa Haruko, his mother, is of my creation, though. :3

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_A - Ancient Feelings_

Goemon gratefully availed himself of the chance to cool off and to prepare himself lunch. There was a sort of melancholy peace in having the kitchen to himself, musing on the susurration of running water as he washed his hands, and then, as he sifted through rice in a dripping strainer. It was too soon to commit to a conversation, even if he felt inclined; he had the bitter sting of a callous insult to thank for his reticence and sullen brooding.

Flicking his fingers dry over the sink, he toweled them, stealing a longing glance at the beautiful day as it eased into the mellow colours of the afternoon. A restless little sparrow settled upon the window sill for a moment, cocking its head inquisitively before leaving him to his work.

From time to time, he plunged a slim pair of chopsticks into the pot over the stove, gently shifting the softening contents as the water came to a rolling boil. _O-kayu_, though a simple meal, was one that awakened ancient feelings. Even if he had access now to pickled daikon and sesame seeds, toppings that would have once been considered precious and out of the question, he added them only sparingly so that he could still remember the way in which his mother made her O-kayu, in good health and in bad.

It had been two decades since her passing, and the most lucid memory he had of her was of her weathered hands. Had her fate as a farmer's wife not been decided by those in a position of authority, her hands might have been slender and prized, thin and white as a crane's neck - meant for greater things.

He remembered the sleepless nights in which he quietly watched her through a crack in the sliding panel, holding his breath. In the haze of dim candlelight, she had slaved over her needle and thread, Kuro hats and insect cages, her lips pursed white, wisps of thin hair having escaped a rigid bind. While her calloused fingers did not know how to coddle and caress, her compassion for him was in her fierce determination to keep him alive. There were times when she only pretended to eat, scraping what little there was into his bowl, and into his grandmother's bowl, or forcing a small cube of tofu between his lips. It fooled no one, but she was not to be denied her pride. When their meager possessions found themselves pawned off, one after another, it was all she had left.

_Typhus and fire-bombs, heat and flies._

Goemon's eyelids ached, feeling sore and dry. He did not touch them.

Ishikawa Haruko's last hours had been spent in pain and a sweaty daze. He had sat there by her side for what could have been a year or a day, struggling against forbidden human weakness as he dabbed her flushed forehead. It had scared him to feel her shivering, claw-like fingers sink into his arm; to see the terrible intensity of her gaze as she squinted long and hard into his face. He had stared back frozenly, dumbly, feeling his stomach drop like a stone with a deepening sense of sickness. She couldn't remember his name.

He had been eleven years old when she drifted down the dark river of death and found his father there. Their souls still slept in the earth, like his grandmother and his grandfather, like Jinen-Sensei and the brother he never had, the creature that had come out strangled by his own umbilical cord.

_Namu-amida-butsu._

_Namu-amida-butsu._

_I am still here._


	2. Breath

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Ishikawa Goemon, but the words with which I have described his situations are entirely mine. Please don't steal. :3

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_B - Breath_

Gulls circled overhead, their shrill, mournful cries lost in the whispers of rolling waves. As they basked in the warmth of the sinking sun, a sleepy langour stole over them, their drunken eyes swimming in one another's. Her windswept hair was woven with gold, her cheeks dimpled like a child's.

"The beach is beautiful, Goemon-kun..." She murmured. He inclined his head.

For a while, they closed their eyes and just listened to the ocean breathe as they bobbed on its heaving bosom, their lungs soaking in the scent of brine. It was a moment of absolute peace, of spiritual synchronicity. It was _enlightenment_.


	3. Capture

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Ishikawa Goemon, but the words with which I have described his situations are entirely mine. Please don't steal. :3 ...Oh, and the other character mentioned here is /NOT/ mine.

- Inspired by a very short scene in a second season episode I can't remember the title of. /

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_C - Capture_ (Because even friends cannot be trusted.)

"- -It is not _my_ fault that you are making it so difficult."

A film of sweat built over his tightening forehead. He wrenched his head to one side, his jaw sliding, locking rigidly into place. The room throbbed and burned with the sting of indignation; he struggled for breath, his body on the edge of a knife.

A brief moment of respite.

"Have you changed your mind?" Leaning over him, she offered a teasing, inquiring look. He shook his head fiercely in reply, eyes pinched shut.

It was of no loss to her. Despite her petulant pout, she decidedly took roguish delight in his stubbornness, availing herself of the opportunity to exploit his newfound weakness. It began again - longer, _more_ intense. Webs of electricity spidered over the surface of his skin, his stomach instantly cramping up in painful spasms that made his bladder feel weak. For all his desperate straining, he could not retract his leg from her grasp, and yet, while swept up in something like blind panic, he did not think to kick at her. His lips twitched dangerously, his chest boiling with the pressure of a stifled cry. There was only so much he could take – and at last, against every fibre of his being, he snapped.

It was over. He threw his head back against the floorboards and burst into laughter.

He laughed at the ceiling until he was flushed and winded with as much shame as amusement.

"Enough..." He managed to grind out, between gasps.

But she was not satisfied. She attacked the sole of his foot with greater enthusiasm still until he coughed himself sick, clutching pitifully at his sore ribs. Only then could his ankle slip free, the imprints of her fingers coalescing around it like bruises. It was a while until he recovered.

"That was cowardly... and uncalled for, Noriko-dono..." He panted, pushing himself up off the floor to sit upright. She thought him upset by his stiffened shoulders and withdrew worriedly, feeling the bite of remorse for having allowed herself to get carried away. When their gazes inevitably met, embarrassing and awkward, she found herself taken aback by the spark of mischief that had replaced the boggled, even violated look to his expression. A heavy burden lifted; Noriko took courage.

"Does this mean you _will_ dance at the matsuri?"

He took a breath as she sidled up to him, his expression flattening.

"...I will think about it."


	4. Disbelief

**Disclaimer:** Ishikawa Goemon is not mine. However, I do own the words with which I have described his situation.

**A rambling Author's Note:** This is an excerpt from one of the strangest, alternate universe roleplays I've ever been a part of... therefore, I don't consider this an official Goedrabble for the letter 'd'. This is more of a freebie, I guess. It takes place sometime in the midst of Goemon's exploration of **Silent Hill**. Incidentally, there are no canon-characters or monsters from the SH games in the actual roleplay, so don't expect something like _P. Head_, because what is seen plays off of the distinct thoughts and fears of the people involved, blahblah, nothing new. Can you figure out the _very obscure_ monster symbolism in this scenario? XD

If there is interest, I might just upload the full roleplay my friend and I created in story-format... the only thing is, I'm not sure if I can do so on this site, because the content has it's share of mature/troubling moments.

- At this point in the story, the Zantetsuken has lost almost all its effectiveness, especially in dealing with creepy-crawlies. He has also lost a good deal of his skill. Ties into the plot, you see. (Also tends to makes things a little more interesting.)

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_D is for Disbelief (and the suspension of it)_

It was hard to entertain the notion that _Lakewood_ had once been a homely, even hospitable residence, more than yellowed, sloughing wallpaper and fungal mustiness. A feeling of heavy, ancient tiredness soaked into his bones; he could not complain. His fruitless search for answers had taken him from the halls ankle-deep in gore, reeking of disinfectants and urine.

It surprised him how easily he had been able to pack himself, his feelings down into a neat, compact little square in the pit of his stomach. He conserved his energy, watching himself from afar and within. _Move, keep moving. Twist door. Search. Leave._

Again and again, locks rattled brokenly as he wrestled their slimy handles. The Zantetsuken at his hip, rendered obsolete, forced him to ram his shoulder into weaker doors to gain access, panting over his blood-soaked sleeve. Many of the rooms were carbon copies, smelling thickly of rancid oils from the open kitchens. There was often food rotten black on chipped plates, broken-legged tables, and moth-eaten chairs beaten until the stitching ripped and stuffing spewed out. His initial surprise dropped steeply, his rummaging through dirty medicine cabinets steadily less panicked and fumbling as he came to understand he would only find white powders and suspicious vials with withered labels.

If there had been something of remote value as a resource, the places had been ransacked well before his coming.

But, room _216_ was different.

His heart knew doubt, quivering bird-like to the whimpering sobs of someone trapped inside. They had stirred his sense of humanity; a surprising reminder that the most integral part of him was still intact. His eyes darted, wild and wide at the prospect of reuniting with Noriko, with that love that had lead him astray. Unwittingly holding his breath, he twisted the knob with a fearful hope, startled when it gave too easily and came loose. It dropped to the carpeted floor with a thump.

He resorted to a well-aimed kick, the force of which made it swing back on its hinges and meet the wall with a violent, shuddering slam. He shrunk inside at his thundering entry and was uneasy at first to set foot within the room, straining his ears past the deafening hammer of his heartbeat.

"Noriko-dono...?" He called carefully as though to himself, his throat dry and constricting.

It was a long time until an answer came - a choked breath. Somewhere out of sight, a radio spontaneously crackled with life; he snapped his head towards the garbled sounds. Muffled and faded laughter, like from some old record, intermittently broke the hiss of white noise. Something about it made him deeply uncomfortable. As he dragged his feet in the general direction of the unwelcome sounds, they took on a chilling clarity.

"--at's right. It's a b--tiful day in Silent Hill, with sunny skies and a high of seventeen."

"At this t-- of year, we -- expect Toluca Lake to attract dozens of picnic-goers to enjoy a qu--t aftern--"

"-ot only residents, Ken. Tourists are also t—ing advantage of our town's sites and attractions. There is just so much to s-- and to do here..."

A casual, goodnatured chuckle. "Not all of us are here for fun and games. ...Japanese tourist, Ishikawa Goemon, has come to find his destiny."

The samurai felt his blood freeze over. He stared unseeing into empty space, nearly overcome by a sudden, inexplicable urge to throw up.

"The assassin?" More laughter. "I'm sure he will come away with great memories that will last a lifetime."

"Indeed, Ken. Maybe we will h--r from him -metime." Papers rustled, throats cleared of amusement. "Now, ont- today's -op sto—twen- er- ol- o-an found- -" The voices began to warp in pitch and tone, smothered by the sizzle of static until the signal was lost entirely. A cold, deathly stillness settled over the room; his eyes felt large in his skull. From under the bathroom, door, tremulous whispers clawed for him with renewed desperation.

Willing his numbed feet to move, his hands closed around the solid, sticky handle at last, breath rasping against his lips as it turned...

And in a staggering split-second, he saw _it_ whip itself around to return his stare - _large, impossibly large_, _a greasy, grub-white torso poised over eight segmented legs, the mandibles in it's lower abdomen working feverishly_ - and he slammed the door shut on his bewilderment, a raucous hiss ripping through his eardrums. Heart rattling within his ribcage, he could barely think, much less grasp that some phlegm-like substance had splashed onto him, soaking through the left shoulder of his keikogi. Within seconds, disorientation gave way to an immediate, white-hot pain. Fabric was fraying and curling black, his flesh crawling as it bubbed pink.

There was no chance to gasp and gather his bearings. The spider's hacking feet smashed through the door, the impact throwing him into the opposite wall and spraying woodchips into his face. His head whiplashed with a sick blur of colour before his back took the brunt of the blow, lungs crumpling like cans underfoot. Hot blood pooled at the roots of his hair; he resisted the urge to feel for the cut in his scalp, throwing a wild glance to the threshold.

_Escape._

Before he realized it, he was already bolting for the threshold as best he could in drunken dizziness, tripping and scrambling into the hall, unable to feel his legs.

- - -

_Break in case of emergency_.

Some part of himself wanted to laugh at the sign until his stomach swam in nausea. He viciously rattled the padlock of a cabinet fixed to one wall, his breath hitching to the jarring crashes of furniture being buffeted aside from within the room - dangerously close. Legs furiously scissoring the air, the creature was struggling to squeeze its mass through the cinching door-frame he had effortlessly passed. The pressure bit into both sides of the translucent sac sagging grossly over its human spine and ooze poured thickly, devouring the carpeting with a singeing hiss.

Goemon couldn't afford to blink back sweat. A crude slash of the Zantetsuken was the unexpected answer to his prayers, slicing the rusted lock open like butter. He wedged in his nails to better pry open the creaky compartment, and it was with dizzying relief that his grip found a dusty hand-axe reserved for the worst of times. His middle felt weak. The thrashing beast broke through in a shower of debris.

Thumbing the edges of rough wood, the samurai took aim and threw his strength behind his arm. The axe flew in a broad arc, his aim true as it sank deep into its thorax with the thick, meaty thunk. Pasty human features warped with a grinding shriek of pain, its legs flailing in an ineffectual effort to swat off the embedded edge. Twisting on his heel, Goemon thought it better than to relish in a moment of triumph. He hurtled down the hall, hair lashing wetly against his forehead. Ropey streams of venom that shot out in retaliation fell short a few feet of drenching his back.

Panting, reeling, all he could think of was of plunging into ice water. The pain of his wound was incredible, twisting him tightly around it's little finger. He tried not to envision his skin roasting, or what would be left of it when he next ventured to look past the blood bubbles... directing his attention instead on a small dome of glass in view. It was the only fire-extinguisher on the second floor. He readied his sword with buttery fingers, and slid its glistening edge through the glass casing, allowing Zantetsuken to drop to his feet as he tugged at the hefty canister clipped into place. Wrenching it free with a grunt, he staggered with it, trying to maneuver both of his hands around its shape. The spider's legs scuttled still with maddened determination, in a rolling wave of arcs and angles. Eighteen feet away, twelve feet, nine feet...

Setting his steely jaw, Goemon struggled to hoist the cylinder higher than he was comfortable with, wincing as his left arm was racked by the deepening strain. Sweat poured between his shoulder-blades. It was his longest appreciation of the creature's grisly details – and quite possibly, the very last. He fought to swing the fire extinguisher by the handle, building a few seconds of momentum before willing every clenching muscle in his upper body to unleash the object's weight. And with an unconscious shout of rage, he squeezed his eyes shut and flung the can hard enough to stumble backwards into the wall, heaving for breath as he watched the metal tube leave his hands and shield him from another vengeful jet of acid. The garish red paint was already dissolving from the extinguisher before it slammed into the monster's jointed legs with a wet crunch. It crumpled over it's fragmented front limbs with a bitter howl that shook the window panes, smothered in the cloud of white, froth that burst forth. The explosion of foam was so intense, the pressure so air-tight, that the spider's skull was sloppily blown apart, gore and ichor and dribbling brain matter throwing impossibly vibrant colours over the floor, over the walls. Its gelatinous sac twitched as it drained empty of its toxins in gouts, withering like a deflated balloon. The floor went up in smoke, suddenly snapping beneath the creature's bulk. Goemon heard the roaring smash of its chitinous exoskeleton shattering to pieces below.

Then, deafening silence.

Pressed tight into a moldy corner, he forgot how to breathe.


	5. Destiny

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Ishikawa Goemon, but the words with which I have described his situations are entirely mine. Please don't steal. :3

**Author's Note: **It's been a busy time, and a worrying personal issue played a huge role in setting me back. I wrote this only recently, in a roleplaying thread, though it has been slightly edited for better flow. It stuck with me, and therefore, I hope it might do the same for you. Thanks for bearing with me. XO And yes, this has now become the REAL 'D' drabble thingy.

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**_D_** is for _Destiny..._

Paper lamps lined the ceiling, their hazy, sensual glow caressing the restaurant's lattice screens, the gentle curve of his lowered lids. The simple elegance of wooden furnishings was flattered in dim lighting. Replete with food and drink, Goemon verged on drowsing in his chair while the waitress made her rounds. Despite dipping in and out of a warm and drunken languor, he had enough self-awareness to maintain good posture and to nod appreciatively, if only vaguely, as the young woman served him hot barley tea. She smiled at him in what seemed like a shy apology for intruding, briefly flashing a set of slightly crooked teeth before swinging around, hustling under the curtain-flap to the kitchen. Lifting the rim of the cup to his lips, he hesitated for a moment before indulging himself in a long sip, contemplating the transience of life. Around him, ruddy faces were seamed with muted laughter.

For a long time, he had felt a soulful weariness, a near-painful ache for something meaningful – and at thirty-three, he felt a push to reconsider his priorities. More and more often, he considered cutting off his ties with Lupin and abandoning his profession, all to escape the growing tedium and move on, to learn and to embrace the joys and sorrows of new experiences in the years he had left on the earth. There were times, too, when he felt the path of the sword could only bring so much fulfillment when his repressed emotions ventured to interfere; when he longed fiercely to embark on a new chapter in his journey.

Softly pushing the tray with his bill across his table, he straightened quietly and sidled out of the establishment, leaving the waitress to count his bills. The night was young. He drew in a lungful of air, and with it, the heavy reek of the city – exhaust, tobacco, and colognes. His lungs felt stuffy, his skin sticky and balmy under the thin weave of his keikogi. Shuffling down the sidewalk, he saw a pair of women huddled under a dirty lamp-post, voluptuous bodies lit in sporadic flashes, their shadowed eyes sweeping over the street with a vulture's intensity. He felt less shame than pity at the sight – there was a newfound sympathy for others trapped by their trade.

For some, it was enough to throw down bills to a person they had never met, and in turn receive sexual favours; but selfish superficiality wasn't enough for him. He did not want to spend the last of his days alone. He needed a deeper human companionship - something that there was little room to nurture in his helter-skelter, nomadic lifestyle. Despite his naiveté of judgment that had him entrusting his heart to some manipulative and destructive creatures, he lacked Jigen's bitter cynicism when it came to piecing himself together. The uplifting promise of peace for his soul had a way of quashing his misgivings.

If fortune smiled upon him, he would follow his father's example and produce an heir to the Ishikawa name. Though a wife meant more to him than a means of securing the future of his bloodline, he was expected to sacrifice his own happiness for duty, and to put personal feelings behind him because he was a samurai, because he could not challenge enduring traditions in good conscience.

The root of his conflicts ultimately lay in his priorities, but _Buddha_ knew he would prolong the churning headache for as long as it would take to arrive to a firm decision.

But...

Perhaps it would all be in vain. Perhaps his thoughts would culminate to nothing. All it took was a sniper bullet piercing his temple, or punching a hole through his heart, for his hopes and dreams, his fears and doubts to dissolve in the span of a second, easing out into his pooling blood. A thief's strongest ambition was often merely to keep alive. Whatever fate decided of his destiny, he knew he would fight a losing battle were he to thrash against the current. He could only take a breath, and allow it to carry him where it would.


End file.
